Defective
by YellowRosesAndHearts
Summary: Kat and Scotty discuss their various relationship defects while getting progressively drunk. KS friendship, post roller-girl. One-shot.


_**Note: I used to be intheclosetromantic on here, this is my first fic in a while! I have a fascination with the Kat/Scotty dynamic, and so that's what this is, a Kat and Scotty angst-a-thon. There are some moments in here that could be seen as shippery if you choose to read them that way, but I really just think they have a cool friendship. The more flirty moments are Scotty being, well, Scotty, because we all know he flirts with everything that moves. Takes place this season, post roller girl, and we have already met Frankie. Reviews would be nice.**_

_**Also, my spell check doesn't work, so yeah. I'm sorry about that.**_

Kat is restless.

She is the type of person who always needs to have something to do; too much time spent in a single setting and she will suddenly feel an irritating hum of anticipation, impatience, in her arms and legs. It is rare for her to show this tendency: she is an extremely controlled person. But occasionally she will feel it leaking out of her, a reminder of her days as a younger woman when she was less cautious and more jaunty and daring, unable to keep herself in one place.

Scotty is a similar case, sitting next to her on the plush red bar stools, knees jumping up and down, sipping a Miller Lite. It is a Friday evening, and he feels a familiar sort of fatigue that is generally felt after a long week of work: tired, solemn, but wide-eyed, and in no way sleepy. He isn't quite sure how he's found himself here, alone with Kat, who is sneaking the peanuts out of his wooden bowl, and nursing her second extremely tall glass of rum and coke. One of the bartenders had thought she was cute, and had gotten her the second drink for free, much to Scotty's amusement. He leans over, in a sudden mischevous mood, and bumps his knee against hers.

"Kit Kat," he says, using a nickname she used to fight, but has now resigned herself to, "I'm okay with sittin' here with you, cause I ain't got nothing else to do tonight. I'm okay with you sneakin' those peanuts out of my bowl, thinkin' I don't notice. But I ain't okay with starin' at the wall all night. So for Christ's sake, say something."

She smiles, but it seems to some from some far away place like she's not really there with him. "Nothin' to say. Maybe you could help me along."

Scotty moves up in his chair, orders two shots of vodka from a nearby bartender.

"Two at once?" Kat says, laughing, "Just how fucked up are you trying to get?"

"One of them's for you," he informs her, with one eyebrow raised, "to help you along."

"You know I don't do shots. Fastest way to get me drunk and unprofessional. Blabbin' to you about shit that ain't none of your damn business."

He puts on this infuriating jock smile, the one he carries that makes her think he must be faking his birth certificate, because there's no way in hell he's two years older than she is. "Good thing I've already seen you like that, then."

"Christ. I don't think I'll ever live that down."

"Callin' the office, puttin' on a fake voice, askin' for a ride home from a date that wasn't even that bad? You gotta give that at least six months."

The shots come, and Scotty immediately picks up his. Kat looks warily at the tiny glass, seeming to consider. She meets Scotty's teasing dark eyes, and he pouts at her, jutting out his lower lip. She sighs, picks up the glass, downs it with him. She feels it tingle in her throat for a minute, flips her hair back, finishes before he does, and just as she does, a thought enters her head.

"So, that Frankie lady called the office today, looking for you."

Scotty snickers into his beer. "You don't say."

"Oh, yeah. That woman is crazy about you. She seems like a reasonable, functional, mature adult. I don't get what she's seein' in you." Kat smiles, sips some more of her drink.

"That's cause you never dated me." He raps his knuckles against the granite bar, licks his lips, raises his eyebrows. He is a big one for random, indiscriminate flirting, and Kat knows this, finds in endlessly amusing.

"And I can't even imagine what I'm missing," she deadpans.

"I'm the nicest guy in the world to date."

"Enlighten me. How does this date begin?" Kat finishes her rum and coke, calls for another one, feeling her head swimming a little. She sits facing him with her elbow on the bar, chin in palm.

"Okay," he begins, pulling his chair closer to her, running his hand through his hair. "I show up at her door. Ten minutes late, cause I don't wanna seem too desperate."

"What a gentleman."

"Yeah, well, I make up for it. I got flowers. I've usually snuck in some kinda guarded question before the date, askin' what kind she likes. 'Oh, pink roses, you remembered!' and I'm in the money."

"And then?" Scotty orders another round of shots, and Kat doesn't refuse.

"And then, we go to dinner. A nice place, downtown, I request a corner table. Kinda place you gotta dress up to go to, cause you women seem to like that. Personally, I dress up for work all the time, and I'd rather wear torn jeans, sit on the couch with a woman and eat hot wings."

"You find a woman willing to go on that date, let me know."

"So, if there's soft music playin', something romantic, I ask her to dance before dinner comes."

"What if there's no dance floor?"

"There's usually not. We slow dance next to the table. That's why I request a corner, for space. Seclusion. She's usually kinda shy at first, but thinks its romantic. I sing the song playin' to her, Sinatra or something, tell her she looks beautiful. Something like, 'I knew you were pretty before, but Jesus Christ, you look amazing'. I always get the second date. And maybe the old invite up for coffee," he says, with a rougish wink.

"Well ain't you just Don Juan."

Scotty laughs, tilting his head back. He grabs Kat's drink directly from her hands, and takes a huge swig of it.

"Although," she continues, "Vera was saying you took Frankie out to a batting cage for your first date. What kinda cheap shit is that, Casanova?"

"It was just for kicks." He leans back in his chair, taking big sips between words. "Besides, I don't see it goin' that far, anyway."

"Something wrong with her?" If so, Kat doesn't see it. She's beautiful, and seems sweet. A little young, but who cares about that?

"No. Not at all." He says it darkly, can't explain why he suddenly feels so tragic.

"Oh, come on. She talk too much? Laugh too loud? Her baseball swing ain't up to snuff? Oh wait. That's you."

"None of that."

"Then what?" She isn't quite sure why she is suddenly so interested in Scotty's dating situation. She generally steers clear of asking people personal questions, just because of her fear of them being turned around on her. She is very private, and expects this from everyone else. In expecting this, she is seldom surprised. She and Vera trade little in personal discussion besides banter, and she doesn't know much about Jeffries. Trying to get personal stuff out of Lilly is like trying to drink from wood. But here she is with Scotty, the two youngest detectives on Cold Squad, and she wants more out of him than she'll be willing to give herself. But he is different from her: he needs to talk. Not about his past, sure, she only knows the basics about that. But he doesn't consider it mortal blastphemy to talk about certain things about himself, outside the office. He isn't like her. She's long since resigned herself to being an island—he isn't okay with that.

"I don't know. I was out with her the other day, and I realized she was just so... normal. You know, formulaic. That beautiful girl in the bar: excited to meet a guy, bright, funny. Got that tough exterior, but it's a front, it ain't real. We'll go out on four dates, have sex, go exclusive. And after a few months I'll realize I've felt about a hundred girls the way I've felt about her. And I'll start waitin' for her to realize it and dump me."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I don't know what it's like to fall hard for a girl, and not have shit messin' with it. I was just nuts about Elisa, I really liked Chris. I wasn't with Ana, but there was times when I wanted to be, so bad—it was all forbidden. And it was all fucked up. I thought I'd be married to Elisa by now, and that went to hell. I was willing to really be with Chris, even though it messed up my friendship with Lil, and she ended up being—well, you know how that ended up. So I don't know how you meet a girl, fall in love with her, simple. And Frankie's never gonna get that. She's too normal, lookin' for simple. And I ain't that."

Kat nods, seeming to understand that. Scotty wishes she didn't, because that means it's her curse, too, and he's struck by how much he doesn't want that for her. He wants her to meet this great guy in a coffee shop, or out grocery shopping, or at the black-tie ball the department throws every year: someone who will love her to bits, adore Veronica, spend his life making them happy. He thought for a long time that Kat was the most normal out of all of them: she was witty, she was attractive. She didn't seem all that haunted by the past. In recent months, he's learned better. Noticed that thing lurking behind her wide, doll-like eyes, perfect, undisturbed skin. It's fear, but more than that, it's solitude.

"I'll get the next round," Kat says. To a nearby bartender: "I'll take vodka and orange juice. As strong as you make it." Scotty says, "I'll have the same."

"So is that what you think about when you're with Frankie? Because in my very, very limited, warped, fucked up experience, that means you're screwed either way."

"We have fun together. We do. But it's not gonna be a big long relationship, and it's not gonna be a few hit-and-quits before we both get tired of it."

Kat looks at him teasingly through her eyelashes. "Not like with Thomas?"

Scotty suddenly stops drinking, freezes in his tracks. "I didn't know you knew I was with Thomas."

"Everyone knew, Scotty."

He laughs, shakes his head."She wouldn't be happy to hear that. She wanted to keep it, uh—under wraps."

"Y'all did a pretty shitty job of it."

He lets out a small snigger, sways around to face her, and unwittingly feels his head droop, struggling to keep balance.

"You're drunk," Kat says, with a small smile.

"I am not."

She looks at him in disbelief, and he puts his hands up in mock surrender. "And anyway, so are you."

"I'll drink to that." She clinks her glass against his, a winning grin on her face, the dim orange lights of the bar catching the honey in her skin, the curves in her full cheeks.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"So what about you, then? We've spent this whole time talking about me. You got any input?"

"No," she says.

"Come on." He puts his palms on the bar to steady himself. He smells like a mixture of beer and minty aftershave, his comservative, dark blue tie loose around his neck, the sleeves of his white button-down hastily shoved up to the elbows. Two young women to their right, gabbing loudly and sipping margueritas, occasionally look over at him, and at Kat with him, as if trying to discern if the two are, in any capacity, together.

"I told you before, I don't have anything to say."

"What about that guy you had the date with? You know, _the_ date?"

"What about him?

"Well, you've been seeing him, right?"

"Sure I have."

"What's he like?"

"A good guy. Likes to eat in and watch movies and play board games."

Scotty laughs, a glint in his eye, moving over toward Kat, who is decidedly more sober than he is. "And?"

"And what?"

"Is it going anywhere?"

Kat should hesitate, but doesn't. "I doubt it."

"And why not? What's wrong with him?"

She sighs. "Nothing."

"Sounds familiar."

"Yeah, well, there isn't. I think it's me." She is suddenly hot, pushes her hair off her neck, holds it against the back of her head for a brief second, eyes closed.

"What's wrong with you?" He is all earnest eyes, a sweet smile, low-voiced and especially serious.

"I don't really wanna talk about it."

"Oh, come on." He orders yet another round, and Kat, without even thinking about her sobriety, takes hers. "I'm the best audience you could have," he says, putting his head down on the bar, "because it's lookin' good I won't remember anything by tomorrow."

"Point taken," Kat says, between sips, "It's lookin' that way for me, too."

"So spill it."

Kat crosses her legs, pulls on the end of one of her curls. "I, um, I'm—bad at this."

Scotty drunkenly reaches over, brushes her shoulder. "Come on, Kit Kat. It's just me."

She releases a breath, nods. He doesn't rush her. She suddenly says, "Do you remember when you drove me home that night? When we talked, in the car?"

"Of course."

"When you said, you thought I was a good catch?"

Scotty squrims in his seat, uncomfortable. "Sure."

"The thing is..." she takes another big sip, and it seems to help her. "The thing is, I don't believe you. I'm just—you know, me. A closed-off emotionless mess half the time, and not all that nice, and when I'm with him I think—like you think—that he's so adjusted, and I'm not. And he could do better."

He gives a sympathetic nod, pats the hand not holding a drink for a few seconds, before she snatches it away. He is used to this tendency in her; the want for comfort, the fear when she actually finds it. He recognizes it as something he has been fighting with for years in Lilly, too, trying to make her feel like a human being. It strikes him how similar the two women are; Kat is perhaps more winning, puts on a better face to the rest of the world, but at core they have almost the exact same fear, if not the same outward disposition. Two smart, sassy, pretty women, setting a trap for poor unsuspecting guys who don't know—they come with stuff, and lots of it.

"I wasn't bein'—dishonest, with you," he picks his words as carefully as he can, seeing as he seems to be losing them with each minute. "You're a great catch. For whoever—can get you. He'll be lucky you looked twice at him." It's true.

"He won't be. I was sitting up the other night, and I realized something."

"What?"

"I—" She suddenly seems to realize what she is about to say, and shakes her head. "No, no. This is crazy. This is enough."

"What?"

"Let it go. We can't talk about this."

"Why can't we?"

"Because we can't."

"Why? You were talkin' a second ago. You were doin' fine."

"Because I don't do this." She pounds her fist against the bar for emphasis. "_I don't do this._"

"Do what?"

"This whole—unburdening my soul thing. It may work for you, but it doesn't work for me."

"And why not?" He says, suddenly frustrated. At her, at Lilly. "I'm sayin', would it be so bad to act like a person for once? Come join the human race, for god's sake, Kat."

She surprised him by shedding a thin smile at that, instead of shutting down, and telling him to stuff it. A big difference between her and Lilly—Kat is less fragile to hold a conversation with. He doesn't find himself walking on egg shells. He dishes, she can take it. It takes alot to rattle her cage, and he's never been able to do it. The way he talks to Kat, getting drunk, and indulging in little in the way of self-censorship, is something he'd never be able to do with Lil, as much as he loves both women to death.

"Jesus Christ. Okay. I don't know if I can do this."

"Remember, I'm definitely not remembering any of this tomorrow morning." Scotty wants to reach over, clasp her should again for encouragement, but thinks better of it. "And anyway, you're like, the strongest person I know. You can talk about a _thought _you had the other night."

An exhale. "Okay." She's talking to the granite in the table, like he's not there. "I just realized..." She bows her head, and he waits. "I realized I've never been in a healthy, adult relationship. How sick is that? I don't know what that's like. I don't know how to—pick good people, have good relationships, the enviornment I need for Veronica. I think I'm—defective in that way. I don't think I have the capacity for it. And that kills me."

At this point, if she were sober, she'd be crying. Thank fucking god she isn't.

"My mom, she always asks me when I'm going to get married. She's like, 'Kat, you're thirty-three years old, the clock's ticking' and I'm like, 'for what? I've already got a kid' and she goes, 'before all your stuff starts saggin' and no man wants to marry you.'"

Scotty laughs, and Kat giggles with him. "It's ridiculous, right?" she says, "But I worry about it. That by the time I get all my shit together, it'll be too late."

"You got time," he says.

"But I have to go back. To that thing I missed when I was eighteen, nineteen. When I was supposed to learn how to love someone like an adult. Because I've only had fucked up relationships too. Like with Veronica's dad..." she isn't sure whether he knows the story, but she's certainly not going to tell it. "I've been just me my whole life, even when I was with someone. And going back, finding that thing, it doesn't feel...feasible. So I'm gonna be by myself. Forever."

He scoots over, drapes his arm around her shoulders. "I know what you mean. I think about that too. Because I don't know how to do it either." He squeezes her for a second, awkwardly, lets go. "But I don't see that for you. I really don't." He pushes a tiny piece of her hair back. "Yeah?"

She nods. "Yeah. And I don't... see that for you, either. You know? With that full-proof first date?" She giggles. "You'll hook a good one."

The bartender comes by, and Scotty says he's finished. "Enough of this grave serious shit," he says to Kat. "I would just like to know, how drunk are you?"

"What?"

"You drunk enough to come back to my apartment, and effectively ruin our friendship forever?" It works; it cuts through the tension.

"You wish, Valens."

"What?" He asks, "When's the last time you got laid, anyway?"

Her eyes nearly double in size, she lets out a loud, raucous laugh. "That is _so_ none of your business!"

"That long, huh?"

The bartender comes by, and Scotty closes his tab. Kat closes hers, too, and the two walk out of the front door, into the biting cold. Kat shivers, Scotty gives her his coat (even drunk, he abides by the laws of chivalry). She wraps it around her shoulders, hails a cab. She climbs into the backseat, and tells the driver her address.

Leaning in through her open window, Scotty asks, "how are you feeling?"

"I'm okay."

He asks her if her phone is charged. She tells him it is. He tells her to call him the second she gets home, so he knows she's safe. She says she will. He tells her to promise. She does.

The cab drives off, and she lays there in the backseat. She realizes she still has his jacket and pulls it tighter around herself; restless limbs almost asleep.


End file.
